Page 61 of The Light Within

This was only his second proper relationship, but it was definitely the latter of Darcy’s two options.

“I’m nice to everyone!” It sounded weak to his own ears.

Cinn reached for the chocolate ganache he’d cobbled together earlier, again mourning the lack of vanilla extract. He spread an even layer of the filling across the sponge.

“What about you?” Cinn shot back at her. If Darcy wanted to interrogate him about his love life, she would get a taste of her own medicine.

She scrunched up her face.

“What are you like in a relationship?” Cinn asked.

Darcy was oddly quiet about such things, come to think of it. She dropped her gaze, toying with the belt of her dressing gown.

Immediate guilt coursed through Cinn. “Don’t worry,” he said in a rush, laser-focussing on rolling the sponge into a tight spiral, ensuring the creamy filling stayed perfectly swirled inside.

“No, it’s fine. I guess I find it more difficult to connect with people in that way, especially compared to other people.”

Cinn tensed, praying she didn’t start on about Julien’s ‘many,many’ again.

“So I’m not sure what I’m like.” She shrugged. “Maybe one of these days.”

He nodded, offering her the bowl with the tiniest amount of ganache left, to scrape off with her finger.

She immediately obliged.

“Mmm. You’ve nailed it, as usual.”

Cinn scoffed. Darcy was being generous, but he happily absorbed the praise. It always felt good to excel at cooking something. He didn’t have many talents, newfound part-time shadow abilities aside.

“But thank you.” Darcy caught Cinn’s arm. “Lord knows you need the patience of a saint to put up with Julien. You’re so good for him. You’re helping him more than you know. And this cake is so sweet of you. Sorry for teasing.”

“This isn’t for Julien,” Cinn protested. “I would have made it, anyway.” An outright lie—he valued his sleep far more than a variety of dessert options.

“Right. Of course.” Darcy winked at him.

The chocolate log was in the oven, the dishes were at leastnearthe sink. Time for a well-deserved thirty minute power nap.

fourteen

Cinn

The Beaumonts were supposed to go to Darcy’s cousins’ in Kensington for most of Christmas Day, but Alexander had experienced two dizzy spells the day prior. Between that and the umbraphage attack, they decided it was best to stay put in the townhouse.

The Westminster incident certainly put a dampener on yesterday evening’s festivities. Their living room housed a tiny television, which everyone crowded around to watch the news. The catastrophic weather event had spanned across the whole of London, causing flooding in several boroughs.

Even though the unblessed couldn’t see the umbraphages—which Cinn was still processing—he’d maintained that there must have been some sort of footage ofsomething.However,Darcy informed him Viktor Sturmhart had moteblessed positioned in every large media company and every government department. The handful of deaths were blamed on the hurricane, and then the news moved on to a celebrity dressed up as Santa caught passed out drunk on the street. Classy.

“We’ll have more fun staying with you four today, anyway,” Fiona said at the breakfast table, once everyone had made it out of bed.

The Buck’s Fizz was already being served liberally. Christmas with Cinn’s mum had always started this way too—the difference being that she’d play cheesy Christmas songs, whereas Julien had somehow found a radio station playing smooth jazz instrumental Christmas classics. Though Julien was already wearing the paper crown Cinn had made forhim—a swirl of red and silver to accentuate the shades of gold in his hair—so he couldn’t moan too much.

Was his mum wearing the one he’d given her yesterday? Did she have people to spend the day with? The alternative made him unbearably sad. Surely she’d have friends, maybe even a new partner. There were so many questions he wished he’d thought to ask.

Next time.

The Beaumonts insisted on cooking the Christmas lunch without any assistance, despite Cinn’s credentials of being a former semi-professional chef. They obviously didn’t trust him with such an important task.

So Cinn found himself in the living room, lit only by soft fairy lights, sprawled across the sofa with Julien. It wasn’t quite a Christmas jumper, but Julien was wearing a thick, patterned cardigan, and Cinn’s gaze kept hitching on it. Julien looked different in it. Looked nice in it. Looked softer, like the wool it was made from. Squishable.

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